Always Believe

by Aimée

  The teenager grinned under her milk moustache: “Truce – I was just trying to make you rise. It’s true, though – I don’t need help taking care of myself. And to answer your question – I’m leaving for France next week. I’m going to help restore a castle in Périgord. It’s going to be so cool! Then I’m spending a week with a friend in Brighton, and then Mum is supposed to have a week’s leave and she said we could go wherever I wanted. I’m hoping for the Costa del Sol – or maybe Majorca – sea, sex and sun!”

  “Right – sounds like you’ve got it all organised. Good thing you got the exams out of the way, then. What about next year?”

  “I’ve been accepted at the Bristol School of Arts, but I’m still waiting for Warwick. I’m going to do a BA in Art History – I’d like to work in Fashion History – or costume designing for TV, something like that.”

  Julie pointed towards her shirt: “Do you like this? I made it myself?” Greyson took a closer look at what the teenager was wearing. A jabot shirt with lace and puffed sleeves. She couldn’t believe Julie had made the intricate garment. She herself, who had almost zero interest in fashion and had spent most of her life in one kind of uniform or another, would have absolutely no idea where to start. Actually, except for the basic darning and button-sewing required by the army, she wasn’t particularly good with a needle.

  “You did? Wow – it looks very professional. I had no idea you were that talented! Another reason not to fry your brain with drugs…” Greyson bit her lips – she shouldn’t keep nagging the teenager about that. They were beginning to establish a kind of relationship, and she shouldn’t jeopardise it. But then, she was a doctor…Luckily for her, Julie didn’t pick her up on it. She blushed: “Thanks – I like doing that kind of stuff. That’s my favourite period – Victorian. Steampunk clothes are very expensive, so it’s cheaper if you make them yourself. I could make one for you if you want…”

  “Thank you – that’s very kind, Julie.”

  “You’re still in pretty good shape – you ought to dress up a bit more, you know. Blokes like it when you show a bit of cleavage.”

  Greyson reddened: “Err – I guess there was a compliment hiding in there. But I’m not really looking to attract blokes.”

  “Why? You’re not that old. Now you’re here, you could find someone steady? Unless you’ve got a man already?”

  “Not sure that’s any of your business, kiddo. But – no, I don’t have anyone, and I’m not looking for anyone. Too much on my plate at the moment.”

  “Come on, Colonel – too much? You’ve gone from army doctor to GP in a small town.”

  “And that’s why you should stop calling me Colonel – I’ve told you again and again – just call me Grey.”

  Julie suddenly looked repentant: “Yes – I know – sorry. I’m not really doing it to be a smart-ass, you know. It’s just how I think of you. Anyway – why don’t you go on a dating app? Or a website? I could take a good pic of you if you want – the camera in my phone is kickass!”

  “I don’t need a good pic, since I’m not going online dating anytime soon. Anyway – what about you? Any guy in the picture?”

  As she listened to her goddaughter ramble on about two guys she had met at the college, Greyson wondered if she was being dishonest, or just operating on a need-to-know basis. After all, there was surely no need to tell the teenager that if she were looking for a soulmate, she would look for a female one? No need either to tell her about her change of career - not just yet.

  After two hours in the coffee shop, Greyson felt like she had finally connected with her goddaughter in a positive way. She had also discovered that the teenager was very chatty, probably very bright too, and that her mind ran a mile a minute with ideas. Julie glanced at the mural clock and gasped: “Crap! Didn’t realise it was that late – hope Arlie is still around!”

  “Arlie?”

  “Mrs Arlingham – the head, you know. I’m still staying at the college until I leave for France. She said she was coming to town to shop and I could get a lift back with her. Only – I’m not sure she’s still here.”

  Greyson nodded: “Right – well, I could have taken you back but I don’t have my car right now – recalled for an airbag check. Do you have her phone number?” She didn’t particularly want to tell Julie she had Angela’s personal number – it might raise some awkward questions.

  “Sure – I’ll text her.”

  Ten minutes later, a black Fiesta stopped at the corner in front of the coffee shop. Greyson suddenly felt paralysed – should she go and say hello? Of course – it was only good manners after all. But… Angela solved the problem for her by getting out of the car.

  “Hi – hope you and Julie had a good time!”

  “Err- yes – yes, thank you. How – how are you?” Greyson looked into the redhead’s blue eyes and swallowed hard. What was it with the woman? They were friends – just friends – friends shouldn’t have that effect on you.

  “I’m – I’m fine. End of term… Plenty of paperwork.”

  “Yes – yes, sure – well – I’ve got to get going.”

  Greyson turned towards Julie and gave her a slightly awkward hug. “Stay safe, kiddo. And enjoy your holidays!” Then she gave a little finger wave to Angela and almost sprinted away.

  Alone at her place that evening, she did a little work and academic reading before settling on her sofa with her e-reader, looking for a crime novel she had downloaded a few days previously. Hopefully the latest adventures of DCI Mellers would keep her thoughts away from the headmistress. Halfway through the third chapter, she realised that instead of taking her thoughts away from the redhead, the book kept bringing them back to Angela. At least, not exactly to Angela, but to why she suddenly felt so lonely. The character’s life mirrored her own – DCI Cat Mellers, a dedicated detective, had next to no personal life. She kept everyone at arm’s length and spent her free evenings alone with her dog watching rom-coms. She may not have a dog – or be interested in rom-coms – but her personal life certainly rivalled the detective’s. She should be used to it by now. After so many years on her own, she ought to be immunized against loneliness, and yet it still came by bouts of heartache and painful realisations. When Elaine had left her, she had shut her heart to love for a long time. And now – now she had lost the key. Even though Angela had stirred dormant emotions, she wasn’t ready to open herself to someone again. Anyway, Angela was straight – still in mourning…

  Sometimes she still hated Elaine for what she had done, and sometimes she even wished she had never met her. That was in her darkest moods. Usually, she could remember how wonderful their illicit time together had been. And the years afterwards, which had gone so fast because they had had so few chances to really spend time together. After the first kiss, Major Lambert had completely ignored her for a week. They still worked together, but except for barking orders at her in the wards, the older woman had not said anything to Greyson. If they walked past each other on the base, the major would just walk on as if Greyson was a ghost. After a week of being treated like that, Greyson had been ready to throw her training course and to request a transfer – anywhere – preferably to the antipodes of Rinteln. Subconsciously, she could understand her superior’s behaviour. Affairs between enrolled personnel were frowned upon. Relationships breaking the hierarchical structure were forbidden, and same-sex relationships were banned and would get you dishonourably discharged. But even if she did understand all that, she couldn’t just forget that kiss. And she couldn’t stay and work with someone who just swept her feelings – and her own – under the carpet. One evening, she had written the letter asking for the transfer – she would go anywhere – back to Africa, or back to England – anywhere but stay in Germany – and she had been about to drop it in the mailbox when she had made a sudden decision. She had to confront the major. She had to know if the woman really had feelings for her, or if it had all been an instant of momentary insanity. Or maybe even a strange, twisted game w
here she had been the prey and Elaine the hunter. Greyson still remembered striding purposefully to Elaine’s bedroom – faking confidence and underneath terrified. She had knocked on the major’s door and walked in without waiting to be invited. And she had found Elaine sitting on her bed, fully clothed, hunched over, hugging her knees. When the older woman had lifted her face, Greyson had seen the red-rimmed eyes and the traces of tears. And she had used the rest of her fake confidence to sit beside her, put her arm around her shoulders and kiss her.

  Maybe her goddaughter was right – maybe she should try internet dating. Maybe it would help her get rid of ghosts and keep her from lusting after unavailable women like Angela.

  A few days later, after having pushed aside her books, Greyson tentatively entered the name of a well-known dating website in her browser. First she thought she wouldn’t put a picture – she didn’t want anyone to recognise her – and then she chided herself – this was a website for lesbians! So if she was recognised … Well, it didn’t matter, because she wouldn’t be judged by her own … Her own what? Her own community? She hated labels so much! But she had to admit that if she really wanted to have a go, she had to put a photo – because she herself would never reply to anyone without a profile picture. Then came the “job” question …She opted for “health sector”, which was possibly as far as she could stretch the truth – she didn’t want to say “doctor”, she didn’t want to mention the Army, and anyway, she was out of it, and she was very much afraid her new career would scare off any possible date.

  She went back a few other evenings, looking at the other profiles, and at the messages she’d received… Nothing tempting. Perhaps she was too old for that kind of thing? She was certainly too old for some of the women – or rather girls- that propositioned her. Some of them appeared to be Julie’s age! As for the messages…They were less than inspiring, even after sifting out the “wanna shag? You look hot, gal!” ones. And she couldn’t help thinking of a certain redhead she couldn’t keep out of her mind…

  Chapter 15

  You left me, sweet, two legacies,—

  A legacy of love

  A Heavenly Father would content,

  Had He the offer of;

  You left me boundaries of pain

  Capacious as the sea,

  Between eternity and time,

  Your consciousness and me.

  Emily Dickinson

  Angela was having one of her dark days – one of those days where she stayed in bed, in the dark, and pondered whether she wanted to die. She didn’t have them as frequently as during the first weeks, of course, but now that the school term was over, she found herself as a loose end. Even though she still had a lot of admin to do, without teaching or pastoral care, her schedule had lightened considerably, leaving more than enough space for thinking and grieving. Sometimes she thought – only fourteen months ago. And sometimes – already fourteen months. But the ending was always the same – Sybil would never be coming back. She would never hear her laugh again, she would never see her becoming an adult, she would never see her get married or have children of her own. She had heard so many platitudes, so much bullshit – even the most well-intentioned people could be cruelly thoughtless. Among the “at least she didn’t suffer” – no one would ever know that, “she is in a better place now” – why on earth? Her place was here, not in a non-existent heaven - or “it was her time”, there had been “time heals everything” and “life goes on”. That last one perhaps rang true the most cruelly, as people forgot, and even though most of the time that’s what she wanted – to be ordinary, it could also hurt. And it even hurt when life felt good, when life tried to reinsert a little joy in her existence. Surely no one would deny her a little happiness again – except herself. If she laughed with a colleague, if she enjoyed a movie, the little voice in the back of her head, the voice that told her she was right to start feeling again, soon drowned under a booming “Sybil will never be alive again.”

  On those dark days, she turned to Sybil’s blog. Or journal, since her daughter had kept it private. She hadn’t found it immediately – a few weeks after Sybil’s death, the headmistress of the school had phoned her and told her one of Sybil’s classmates had come and told her about it. She had given a title to it “Travels of a Broken Swan.” Most of it made for heart-rending reading. She had been picked on from her first days at the school by a group of girls, and it had quickly escalated from teasing and bad jokes, to completely ignoring her, to physical bullying. The girls had told Sybil she was too fat, she would never be a ballerina, and several times, they had held her down and force-fed her cake and coke. Sometimes they’d forced her to vomit, and sometimes they’d forced her not to. Even now, Angela wept when she read what Sybil had written: “I’m a fat pig – I’ll never be a dancer. I’m ugly and gross.” And among those posts, other entries showed why she had never asked her mother to remove her. “Miss B. asked me to demonstrate the adage today.” “Miss A. said I was light on my feet.” “Mr D. told me I was very musical.” And the last post always broke her heart: “Mum, if you find this journal. I’m sorry – I just can’t take it anymore. It’s not your fault. It’s just mine. I can’t be perfect. I can’t be a dancer. I can’t be anything. Please don’t be too sad. I want you to be happy, but I can’t be here anymore. It’s too hard. I hope you forgive me, and maybe we’ll see each other one day. I repeat – it is not your fault - I love you, Mum, forever. Your Sybil. PS: I know Papa will be sad too but he has his other family – maybe you should have another one too. Please take care of yourself.” As always, Angela sobbed over the pages she had printed.

  She woke up the next morning with a humongous headache, the result of having cried herself to sleep. Looking at her kitchen, she decided it was time to do something. She didn’t use it much in term time, except in the evenings to warm up soup or pasta, and papers, letters and things had found their way to the counters and the table. Armed with a cup of coffee, she sat down and began to sift through the piles. A blue unopened envelope appeared, stuck to a newspaper. She couldn’t even remember seeing it before. Since the address was handwritten, she decided to open it before throwing it away – she sometimes got mail from old students. She stared at the content – a card in the shape of a Tardis, inviting her to Maisie Crammer’s wedding on the 10th of August. Angela smiled – even in the sixth form, Maisie had been a die-hard Dr Who fan. She had had autographed pictures in her bedroom and she could remember seeing her leaving for a Comic Con in full Osgood disguise. She had seen Maisie once or twice since she had left, as the young woman was working at her doctor’s surgery as a receptionist. Maisie was perfect for the job – the sensitive and introverted young woman was a wizard with computers and figures. Maisie had told Angela she didn’t want to go to university, and Angela had accepted it would probably have been hard for the girl to lose her familiar points of reference. As far as she knew, Maisie had never been officially diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome, but the school psychologist had talked about the possibility. Anyway, the wedding invitation was proof Maisie was doing well for herself. Angela decided she would make a special effort to be there – at the bottom of the invitation, Maisie had scrawled: “Hope you can come, Arlie! It would mean a lot to me.” Angela had heard the nickname behind her back so many times she had finally decided her old students could use it to her face – but certainly not her current ones!

  Chapter 16

  Better is hidden rebuke than hidden love; Wounds from a friend can be trusted but an enemy multiplies kisses. Proverbs 27: 5-6

  Greyson had always hated cemeteries. Especially under a summer rainstorm. She wondered whether she would ever feel comfortable in them. She didn’t mind the older graveyards, around countryside churches, buried in grass and weeds. She liked those, in fact – they felt peaceful and almost… Happy. But the city cemeteries only seemed to ooze pain and despair in bleak surroundings. She always thought them somewhat hypocritical too – as a Christian, you had to believe tha
t the soul was not six feet under but safe with God – what was the point of a slab of marble and a few withered flowers? The funeral had gone well enough, though – it usually did when the deceased was over one hundred years old. After saying the committal prayers and waiting for the few family members present to throw the first handfuls of earth on the casket, Greyson shivered as she looked at them walking away. She was wearing only her black shirt with the dog collar, as she didn’t think it would be proper to officiate in a raincoat, but she had brought her mac with her, and once the last relative had left, she gratefully bundled up in it and wrapped a scarf round her throat. Maybe not the best idea to put it on soaking clothes but it would offer a modicum of protection. The temperature had dropped considerably and she didn’t want to lose her voice. She remained at the grave for a few minutes, waiting for the caretakers to fill the tomb and saying another prayer. As she walked away, planning the rest of the day in her head, she turned and bumped into a young man who reached out to steady her.

  “Sorry, I didn’t – oh, hello, Grey!”

  “Paul! I’m so sorry – I really wasn’t looking at where I was going.” She glanced at the young man’s face and saw he didn’t look like his usual cheery self. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes – yes, I’m fine, thanks. I was just – well, you’ll think I’m a moron, but I was talking to my grand-father. He died two years ago. We’ve always been close and I like to tell him about my life. About his garden too – he left me his house. I’m not great with plants but Carl is.”

  “I don’t think you’re a moron at all. I understand – and I think you’re very lucky to have been close to your grand-father.”

  Paul nodded: “Yes – he was cool. So – do you want to get coffee or something? No offence, Doc, but you look like a drowned rat.” Greyson grinned: “Well, I’ve heard better pick-up lines, but – all right, why not? Since it’s suddenly November in the middle of summer, I could do with a hot drink.”